


Oh, Christmas Tree!

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Christmas, Down the Chimney Affair 2013, Gen, Jellyroll the cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A frightening injury sidelines Illya on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Christmas Tree!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pactnmmt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pactnmmt/gifts).



PACTNMMT asked for a story using blizzard, blind and fallen tree, with optional moments of angst and hurt/comfort. I hope this tale is everything she was looking for. My thanks to Sparky, who came up with a legitimate ailment for our intrepid hero.    

 

 

 

Dr. Rousseau attached the final piece of tape, securing the thick white bandage covering Illya's eyes. He stepped back with a sigh. “We've done all we can for now,” he said. “Go home and get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin. Let nature do its work.” 

Illya reached up, feeling the soft, woven texture of the gauze under his fingers, and the heat of the injured flesh beneath the dressing. He traced the singed brows, the cheeks, scored with dozens of tiny cuts from flying debris, and the nasal bone, broken when he fell. His fingers paused, trembling, above the eyes, reliving the blinding flash of green light that had exploded all around him – the last thing he saw before his world went dark. After that came the terror, that awful, floating panic, and Napoleon's voice screaming at him to get up, get clear of the blast zone. 

He pushed the image away. “How long will I be - like this?” 

“Retinal tissue regenerates fairly rapidly,” the doctor replied carefully. “You're already seeing gradations of light and shadow, so that's encouraging."

"I was hoping for something a bit more specific."

"And I wish I could give that to you, Mr. Kuryakin. Truly, I do. The reality is that, for some people, vision returns quickly. Others – well, they take a bit longer.” 

It was all Illya could do to keep from snapping at the poor man. “How _much_ longer?”

“Again, it varies. Days. Weeks perhaps. In rare cases, a few months. With flash burns, there's no hard and fast rule.” 

“But if you were to guess –?” 

Dr. Rousseau sighed. “You were in close proximity to the death ray when it was fired, so your retinas received the full brunt of the flash. They're completely bleached of pigment. If I had to guess, I'd say a minimum of three to four weeks.” 

Illya absorbed the information. “But my vision _will_ return?” 

“I have no reason to think otherwise.” His unseen smile was kind. “And now, just give me a moment to let Mr. Solo know you're ready to go home.” He retreated to his desk, and spoke softly into the phone. 

“Yes, of course.” Illya slid off the examining table and fumbled his way toward the nearby chair to retrieve his suit jacket. His hand closed on empty space. Frowning, he groped along the cushions, patting the slick naugahyde upholstery with increasing frustration. “ _Chyort!_ Where _is_ it?” 

The doctor glanced up. “Can I help you find something, Mr. Kuryakin?” 

A flush crept up Illya's cheeks. “No. Well, yes. I – I appear to have misplaced my jacket –” 

The door to the examination room slid open, and Napoleon strode in. “Okay, partner. Let's get this show on the –” He took in Illya's flustered expression. “Oh, crap. You were looking for this, weren't you?” He placed the missing jacket into Illya's hands. 

A long, unsteady breath. “I need to know where things _are,_ Napoleon.” 

“Of course you do. I didn't think. Your jacket was getting wrinkled, so I had the nurse hang it up.” 

Illya fought to master the emotions threatening to spill forth. _Breathe._ He felt his diaphragm lift, his lungs expand and contract. _Again. Lift, expand, contract._ He focused on the sensation. He felt dizzy - disoriented and slightly nauseous - as though he was riding a speeding roller coaster blindfolded. He was reminded of a play he'd seen several years ago at the Queen's Theatre in London's West End. _Stop the world, I want to get off._   

He put the jacket on, buttoned the buttons, tugged on the cuffs. He rotated to face the desk. “I presume you will want to see me again, Doctor?” he inquired crisply. 

The answer came from somewhere to Illya's left, startling him: “Mmm, yes. Three or four days should do it. I'm heading out of town tonight for the Christmas weekend - that is, assuming the storm doesn't put a kink in my travel plans. It was snowing pretty hard when I checked an hour ago.” His footsteps moved back toward the desk, and Illya heard the sound of pages being flipped. “Let's set up something when I return – say, Tuesday the 27th at ten?” 

“Yes. Fine.” 

The doctor pressed a handful of prescriptions into Napoleon's hands. “Have the pharmacy fill these for Mr. Kuryakin on your way out. There's an anti-inflammatory to help alleviate swelling in the surrounding tissue, and a paralytic to help relax the ciliary muscles. Also an antibiotic ointment for the infection, and something for the pain. Beginning tomorrow, you'll need to change his bandages twice daily.” 

“Got it.” Napoleon took Illya's arm and laid it atop his own. “Ready to go, _tovarisch_?” 

“I was ready five minutes after they admitted me.” 

“Okay then. Let's get out of here before the good doctor changes his mind.” 

They moved in tandem along the corridor to the in-house pharmacy, and from there to the UNCLE parking garage. Illya sensed people staring as they passed by, their curiosity marked by abrupt silences where there had been casual chatter moments before. He heard the gurgle of a coffeemaker and the clack of a typewriter, smelled the flowery fragrance of _Prince Matchabelli_ and the musky scent of _Tabu._ He sighed with relief when they reached the relative anonymity of the garage. 

“Next stop, Greenwich Village.” Napoleon threw the DeLorean into gear, and they roared down the spiral ramp onto Second Avenue. “Wow, it's really coming down. There's a couple inches of snow on the ground already." He switched on the headlights. "Looks like it's going to be a white Christmas.” 

“'Just like the ones you used to know.'” Illya pressed his cheek against the windowpane. The cold glass felt wonderful against his overheated skin. 

The municipal snowplows were already out in force, and Napoleon was relieved to see that the roads were still in decent shape. They continued along Second Avenue, past the towering skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan. The shadows of the buildings flashed seductively across Illya's bandaged eyes. _Light, dark. Light, dark. Light, dark_. 

They crossed over onto Broadway and then West 4th.  The streets in this part of town were nearly deserted, giving the city a stark, other-worldly feel. A few hardy pedestrians scurried by, clutching their hats, collars turned up against the biting cold. Traffic lights swung wildly on their cables, buffeted by the wind. Illya could feel the rear wheels of the DeLorean fighting for traction on the slippery road.

The familiar landscape of Washington Square Park scrolled by in his imagination: The Arch and surrounding elm trees, mounded with snow. The great fountain, frozen into silence. The nearby campus of New York University, that churning hotbed of social unrest. Edgar Allen Poe house, a red brick walkup not unlike his own, where the author had written "The Cask of Amontillado." The long bank of chess tables at the southwest corner of the park where Bobby Fisher once played...  

“You doing okay, _tovarisch?_ ” 

“I am fine, Napoleon. Stop asking.”  

The streets grew narrower, high rises and skyscrapers giving way to cozy brownstones, bodegas and jazz clubs. The sound of a busker playing Christmas carols on his clarinet drifted faintly through the glass, the wind whipping the notes into fantastic patterns of sound. Illya sighed. _Almost home._ They turned onto Waverly Place, and he found himself wondering once again at the unlikely chain of events that had led him to the aptly named street.

 Napoleon eased the car to the curb in front of an aging brownstone. “I still say we'd be better off staying at my place,” he complained as they climbed the stairs to Illya's fourth floor walk-up. “It has an elevator. Not to mention central heating. The furnace in your building is always breaking down.” 

“It is not so bad. The frozen pipes remind me of summers in Moscow.” 

Napoleon's sigh of resignation was comment enough. 

The building was abnormally quiet, Illya's neighbors having joined the throngs of travelers leaving the city for the Christmas holidays. Napoleon disarmed the security system and turned up the thermostat in the chilly apartment. “There,” he declared, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Hopefully we'll have heat in a few minutes.” Pipes rattled noisily in the walls around them. The radiator hissed and sputtered. 

Illya stood in the foyer, listening to the clanking pipes and creaking floorboards. There was a reassuring sense of familiarity to the sounds. He felt his muscles unclench. _It was good to be home_.

“Are you hungry, _tovarisch_? I could whip us up a little something if you like.” 

“Starving.” He frowned beneath his bandages. "Did you remember to buy cat food? Jellyroll needs to eat too, you know."

Jellyroll, was Illya's cat, a massive Persian with claws the size of scimitars and teeth that could chew through cast iron. Napoleon and the cat had shared a mutual antipathy from Day One. “Yes, Illya, I bought an extra-large bag of kibble for that miserable beast of yours. Fortunately, he wasn't around when I got here.” 

“Hiding, no doubt.” Illya fixed his partner with a sightless stare. “Jellyroll knows you hate him, Napoleon. Cats can sense these things.” 

“I don't hate him. I hate what he does to my trousers." He turned toward the kitchen. "Now then, how does a nice, fluffy ham and cheese omelet sound?"  

Illya's stomach rumbled at the thought. “Far better than that foul swill they serve in Medical.” 

“Omelets it is. Do you need help getting changed?” 

“I am blind, Napoleon. Not crippled.”

"Just asking. Go ahead and get comfortable, and I'll start our supper." He edged his way into the apartment's tiny kitchen, and set about organizing their meal amid a clatter of pots and pans.

Illya took a moment to orient himself, creating a mental blueprint of his apartment and positioning each piece of furniture clearly in his mind. He turned confidently in the direction of his bedroom, and promptly collided with a recliner. 

“ _Chert voz' mil! K'chortu! Bl'ad!”_  he roared.

Napoleon's head flew up. “Illya? What hap –?” 

“ _What_ is my Barcalounger doing in the middle of the living room?”  

“Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you. I needed to move it. To make room.” 

“Make room?” Illya massaged his bruised shin. “For what?” 

“The Christmas tree, of course.” 

For several seconds, the only sound in the room came from the pipes banging in the walls. 

“ _What_ Christmas tree?” Illya inquired with deadly calm. 

“Ours. The one I bought.” Napoleon glanced at the tree, with its sparkling ornaments and happy, twinkling lights, and felt a surge of holiday cheer suffuse his being. “I have to say, there's nothing like a ten foot, double needled Scotch pine to brighten up a drafty old apartment. It was a challenge finding someone willing to haul it up four flights of stairs, but –” 

“Then presumably you can find someone to haul it back down.” 

“What? No!” Napoleon was aghast. “Be reasonable, _tovarisch._ It's Christmas Eve!" 

“I know what day it is.”

“But it's four flights of stairs! Besides, this dismal garret of yours can use a dose of holiday cheer." 

“I like my 'dismal garret' just the way it is.” 

"Yeah, well, after a week of crouching in a drainage ditch on the outskirts of Yuma, I'd prefer a little more 'comfort and joy,' if it's all the same to you." Napoleon exhaled, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of his Christmas spirit. His tone softened. “Look, _tovarisch_ , there's no place I'd rather be than right here, helping you - even if I have to walk up four flights of stairs to your drafty apartment every day to do it - but don't expect me to miss Christmas because you're too pigheaded to celebrate with me.” 

“I am _not_ pigheaded,” Illya mumbled sourly. 

“No?” 

“No.” He crossed his arms in sullen silence. 

“Could've fooled me.” Napoleon allowed a hint of steel to creep into his voice. “Now hear this, my stubborn Russian friend: the tree and I are a package deal _._ Either it stays, or I go. Take your pick. And if I leave, it's back to Medical and that 'foul swill' they call food. _Capisce?”_  

Illya could not believe his ears. "You are - _blackmailing_ me?"

"If I have to."

After a moment, he nodded, although he did not look pleased. "Fine. You can keep the tree." 

“Good. Now that that's settled, let's see about supper.” 

They enjoyed a simple meal of omelets and a salad, topped off with cups of excellent coffee and a bag of ginger snaps. When they were finished, Napoleon did the dishes and put fresh kibble out for Jellyroll. He called the cat several times, but the cantankerous beast never came. 

They settled in for the evening – Illya on his repositioned Barcalounger, listening to Duke Ellington's _Far East Suite_ , and Napoleon on the sofa, enjoying the lights on the tree and reading Dylan Thomas' _A Child's Christmas In Wales_ as he did every Christmas Eve _._ Outside the apartment, the wind howled, snow and sleet battering the windows with ever-increasing ferocity. The lights flickered once or twice, but they remained on. 

The sudden whistle of Napoleon's communicator broke the spell. 

“Solo here.” 

“We've got a hostage situation, Napoleon.” The faint tremor in Lisa Rogers' voice betrayed the urgency of the situation. “A radical group calling itself the Weather Underground has planted a bomb inside St. Patrick's Cathedral, and they've threatened to set it off tonight during Midnight Mass. There are over two thousand people in there already, including Francis Cardinal Cooke, Mayor Lindsay and a number of United Nations dignitaries. The hostage-takers are threatening to detonate the bomb if the authorities try to evacuate the building.” 

“Jesus. Do we know what they want?” 

“What do people like that always want? Money – two million in negotiable bonds – and a platform for their agenda. Realistically speaking, there's no way authorities can meet the ransom demand in time - certainly not on Christmas Eve. Mr. Waverly feels our best hope of saving the hostages is to locate the bomb and dismantle it before the deadline. He wants you there ASAP to supervise the operation.” 

“On my way. Solo out.” He turned to Illya. “I hate to leave you in the lurch, but – ” 

Illya held up his hand. “I will be fine. Go.” 

“Your medicine is on the counter. Back as soon as I can.” He threw on his coat. 

“Be careful.” 

“Always.” 

The door closed with a muffled thud. Illya reset the alarm and reclaimed his seat on the Barcalounger. He tried to concentrate on the music - a mellow improvisational track by Duke Ellington - but his restless mind refused to relax. He couldn't stop thinking about Napoleon, out there alone, struggling to dismantle a bomb as the seconds ticked away. _I should be there,_ he thought, feeling angry and frustrated. To make matters worse, the pain medication he'd taken earlier in the evening was wearing off. He ached all over, and his head felt ready to explode.  

He got up and dry-swallowed the handful of pills Napoleon had left for him. Then he changed the record on the stereo, mentally counting his way through the cinderblock shelf of albums until he found John Coltrane's wildly irreverent _Ascension II._ _Better_ , he thought as the quintet's wailing anarchy filled the air. Outside, the wind shrieked in counterpoint, sending snow swirling in every direction. Illya lay back, giving himself up to the music. 

Pharaoh Sanders had just begun his saxophone solo when suddenly there was a deafening crack, The walls of the apartment shuddered, and the record player stopped. Illya sat up, jolted from his reverie. He replayed the noise in his mind - cracking wood. _A_ _tree branch falling on the brownstone?_ If that was what it was, he hoped it had not caused any structural damage to the roof of the building. 

He flicked the power switch on the stereo, but the turntable remained frozen in mid-play. He tried the television next. Nothing, not even static. He picked up the telephone and listened for a dial tone, but heard only silence. The apartment seemed a shade darker to Illya's bandaged eyes, so the lights were probably out too, although he had no practical way to confirm this. Fortunately, the state of the art security system UNCLE had installed came with a built-in backup - reassuring, although he doubted THRUSH would be so foolish as to mount an assault in the middle of a blizzard.

Normally a power outage wouldn't have bothered him – they happened all the time in Moscow, and he had plenty of candles and reading material to keep him occupied. However, with his sight impaired, his options were severely limited. He thought about turning in for the night, but it felt disloyal to do so with Napoleon out in the field. Instead, he grabbed a quilt from the bed, and settled back on the Barcalounger to wait for his partner to return. 

The hours passed, and the storm continued to intensify. Illya dozed in his chair, wrapped in his quilt and serenaded by the persistent scrabble of icy pellets against the window. 

He wasn't sure what woke him, but suddenly every nerve in his body was alert, adrenaline pumping urgently through his veins, his sixth sense screaming. He cocked his head, stretching out his awareness into the black void, searching for the source of his unease. All was still. _Nothing,_ Illya decided after several uneventful minutes had passed. _It was nothing._ He gathered his quilt around him... 

 _Footsteps!_ His head swung in the direction of the sound. A floorboard near the front door creaked. _Tvoyu mat'! Someone was in the apartment! They had gotten past the backup security system!_ He rolled silently to the floor, wedging his body behind the Barcalounger, and reached for his sidearm. Too late, he remembered that he had left it on the night table in the bedroom, along with his communicator. _Careless! No weapon, and no way to summon help._  

 _Whispered voices._ So, at least two of them. _No,_ he corrected, _three._ He could hear the third man padding toward him from the bedroom. _That one must have come up the fire escape. They were boxing him in, cutting off the exits._  

Illya knew he had only seconds in which to decide on a course of action. He pictured his surroundings – the bookshelves, crammed with heavy books. A lamp with a cord. The radiator. A quilt. _At least with the lights out, the intruders are as blind as I am_. Without further ado, he unscrewed the radiator cap and hurled it away from him as far as he could. It landed with a clang on the kitchen floor. The two men nearest the door opened fire, sending a hail of bullets into the cabinets and ricocheting off the appliances. 

He used the distraction to lunge at the third attacker, the one closest to his position, and they went down together in a flailing tangle of limbs. Illya pressed his advantage, gouging his fingers into the man's carotid artery. The intruder gasped and went limp.

One _down, two to go_. He crawled toward the bedroom and his weapon. 

The cold metal barrel of a semiautomatic was jammed against the back of his head. 

“That's far enough, Kuryakin. Stick 'em up.” 

Illya sighed, and raised his hands. “'Stick 'em up?' Really? Who writes your dialogue ? Lee Van Cleef?” 

The man laughed; it was not a friendly sound. "The name's Harry Quill, and these other two are my colleagues. The one with half a brain is Artie Fowler, and of course you've already met Gerald Hawkins. He's the unconscious lump of uselessness on the floor."

 _So, there were three of them. His original assessment had been correct._ "Charmed, I'm sure. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Quill leaned down, seizing a handful of Illya's blond hair in his fist. his hot breath brushed Illya's ear. "I believe a man should know the name of the THRUSH who kills him," he hissed. "Don't you?"

Illya tensed, ready for action. _If he could catch them off guard -_ "Why me?" he asked with apparent unconcern.

"Isn't it obvious? You're the prize in the Crackerjack box! The great Kuryakin, the one they said couldn't be killed. Hah! Looks like they were wrong." He shook his head, as though he couldn't quite believe his good fortune. "When I got the word that your high and mighty partner had been called away to St. Pat's -"

 _That was interesting._ "So you know about that, do you?"

"THRUSH has spies everywhere," Quill bragged. "Solo's unexpected departure gave me the perfect opportunity to put my plan into action. I'll get a promotion for this, maybe even a ticket on the fast track to THRUSH Central." He grinned as the idea took hold.

Illya snorted. “You THRUSH minions have never lacked for ego.” 

"Why, you little -!" Quill's henchman cuffed Illya across the bridge of his broken nose. The pain was astounding. Illya bit his lip to keep from crying out. Fowler hauled back, preparing to hit him again -

Quill snapped his fingers. “Enough. He's just trying to delay us." He stepped back. "Get it over with, Fowler. His partner could come back at any minute and I, for one, don't want to be around when he finds the body.” 

“With pleasure, boss.” A second barrel pressed against the base of Illya's skull. “Say your prayers, UNCLEman.” 

As Illya took what he feared might be his last breath, several things happened at once. 

An odd rustling sound erupted from the ceiling. It was accompanied by an ominous rumble, like a motor idling. 

Fowler looked up, and found himself staring directly into the eyes of a hissing, spitting, thoroughly enraged cat. 

“Hey, boss – ” 

With a yowl that would have curdled cream, Jellyroll launched himself off the top of the Christmas tree. He landed squarely on Fowler's face, teeth bared, razor-sharp claws raking his skin. The hapless THRUSH fell to his knees, screaming in pain, fingers scrabbling to pull the psychotic beast away from his eyes. Jellyroll expressed his contempt for this maneuver by biting him on the bare knuckles. The gun flew from his hands. 

While Harry Quill was busy gawking at the bizarre scene, the ten foot, double-needled, fully decorated Scotch pine began to tilt. It listed precariously to one side as the jostled ornaments tinkled merrily.Too late, Quill noticed his peril. He tried to scramble out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. The tree fell with a mighty crash, ensnaring him in an impenetrable tangle of Christmas lights, shattered glass ornaments and thick, prickly branches. Illya clobbered all three attackers with a reading lamp. 

“ _Schitat' chto!”_ he muttered, massaging his swollen nose.

He secured the prisoners with strings of Christmas lights, collected their firearms, and retrieved his communicator from the nightstand in the bedroom. “Open Channel D,” he declared pleasantly. “Kuryakin here, requesting cleanup on Aisle Six. I have some uninvited guests I would like removed from the premises.” 

*/*/*/ 

Napoleon slogged back to the apartment in the early hours of Christmas morning, reeking of cordite and incense. The storm had ended, and the sun was rising above a silent, snow-covered city. He dragged himself up the four flights of stairs, bone tired and desiring nothing so much as a hot shower and a warm bed. He stepped across the threshold.... 

“What the hell –?!” 

The place was a shambles. The kitchen cabinets were riddled with bullet holes, and the appliances bore enough pockmarks to resemble the surface of the moon. The oven door – what was left of it – hung precariously on its single remaining hinge. Cans of food and bags of flour and sugar exploded down the pantry shelves in a disgusting sludge. Bullet casings were strewn across the floor, mingling with fragments of shattered ornaments and odd bits of tinsel. The Christmas tree lay on its side, in ruins. 

"What the hell -?" he said again. "Illya -?"

The Russian sat calmly at the center of the carnage, holding a THRUSH assault rifle and looking like a big game hunter posing with his prize. At his feet, the three goons lay, trussed up like Christmas geese. Jellyroll sprawled across his lap, snoring.

Illya gestured toward the would-be assassins. “Merry Christmas, Napoleon!” he declared cheerfully. “I hope you like what I got you.” 

Napoleon's fatigue-fogged brain struggled to wrap itself around the image. “Sweet Jesus, what _happened_?” 

Illya shrugged. “Some THRUSH and I had a minor disagreement last night. Fortunately, my opinion prevailed.” 

“A _minor_ disagreement? From the looks of your apartment, it was an out-and-out donneybrook! Are you alright?” 

“Never better. I have called for an UNCLE cleanup crew, but they must be delayed by the storm.” Illya cocked his head. “How did the hostage situation at the cathedral turn out?” 

Napoleon waded through the debris to the nearest chair. “It was touch and go for awhile," he replied wearily. "Fortunately, we were able to defuse the bomb with two minutes and seventeen seconds to spare. Fourteen members of the Weather Underground are in custody, and the parishioners are safely home, none the wiser, all snug in their beds and dreaming of sugarplums.” 

Illya nodded in satisfaction. “I am sorry about the Christmas tree, Napoleon. I know how much it meant to you. We can get another one, if you wish.” 

“That's okay – I doubt even a Christmas tree could make this place habitable now.”

“Is it very bad?” 

“Are you kidding? There are bullet holes in the plaster, broken furniture, exposed wires. It'll take at least a week to repair everything.” He hesitated. “You're sure you're okay? That nose looks pretty swollen.” 

“A small price to pay. I am alive and well, thanks to Jellyroll.” He scratched the sleeping cat under his chin.

“Your cat?” Napoleon frowned. “What's that miserable beast got to do with it?” 

“Ah, Napoleon, therein lies a tale to thrill the ages." Illya settled back in his Barcalounger, clearly enjoying himself. "You see, when these Three Not-So-Wise Men so rudely attacked, I was caught off-guard. I managed to take out one of the intruders without too much trouble, but the other two overpowered me before I could get to my weapon. They would have killed me, had Jellyroll not been here to stop them. He managed to pull the Christmas tree down on top of them. Jellyroll saved my life. ” 

At the sound of his name,Jellyroll's eyes opened. He stretched languidly, turned loving eyes upon his master, and proceeded to lick Illya's fingers, one by one. 

 _“Koroshyi kot,”_ Illya whispered.

Napoleon studied the three THRUSH, noticing for the first time their bloodied faces and bruised, bitten hands. "Looks like you guys met your match this time," he chuckled.

“No kidding,” Quill snapped. "If it wasn't for that lousy cat, Kuryakin would be dead by now, and I'd be drinking champagne with the big boys at THRUSH Central.” 

With a hiss, Jellyroll turned his malevolent gaze upon the man. Ears flattened, fangs bared in fury, he glared down at Harry Quill as though anticipating a particularly tasty meal. Quill cringed, and drew back as far as his tight bonds would allow. 

Illya stroked Jellyroll's soft fur with great affection. _“Khrabryyi malen'kiy kot.”_  

“A brave little cat,” Napoleon agreed, meaning every word. “UNCLE could use a few more like him.” 

“Perhaps I will suggest it to Mr. Waverly when I return.” 

The senior agent surveyed the scene, and sensed opportunity knocking. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he remarked casually, “but your kitchen is shot to hell – even _I_ can't cook a Christmas roast in an oven with no door.” 

Illya's face fell. “No, I suppose that is too much to ask.” 

“Most of the food is ruined, anyway. I guess we could make due with cold sandwiches –” 

“On the other hand, a warm meal would be most welcome – ” 

“But with no stove – and of course all the restaurants are closed on Christmas –"

"Perhaps your Aunt Amy -?" Illya inquired hopefully.

"She's spending Christmas with her new gentleman friend in the south of France. Oh, well, there's always Medical. They serve hot food, don't they?” 

“What they serve in Medical may be hot, but only a fool would call it food.” 

“Well, then.” Napoleon sighed, injecting what he hoped was a convincing note of regret into his voice. “I suppose we could spend the holidays at my place.” 

“Perhaps it would be best,” Illya replied with a hint of the tragic. “I will go and pack an overnight bag.” 

“Great! I'll get Jellyroll's things ready.” 

“Jellyroll?” Illya stopped in his tracks. “Did I hear you correctly, Napoleon? You're offering to take Jellyroll with us? To your apartment? The one with the antique Hepplewhite brocade sofa, silk-knotted Aubusson carpet and Viennese crystal chandelier?” 

“Well of course,” Napoleon replied sensibly. “The little fella can't stay here all by himself, can he?” 

While Illya was still working out a response to this monumental shift in the space-time continuum, he felt Jellyroll leap down from his lap. The big cat sidled up to Napoleon, purring insistently. He rubbed his body against the senior agent's trousers, shedding tufts of pale fur along the finely creased cuffs.

Napoleon gathered the beast into his arms. "Good cat," he murmured. "Nice cat." He massaged Jellyroll's ears. "I have to admit, it's reassuring to know that my partner has someone to watch over him when I'm not around." Gentle hands stroked the animal's soft underbelly. The purring grew louder. "Listen, little fella, I know we got off to a rocky start, but I'm willing to make amends if you are. What do you say to a truce?"

 Jellyroll mewed softly, and nestled more deeply into the crook of Napoleon's arm. His eyes closed in ecstasy.

Standing amid the ruins of his beloved apartment, Illya smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  */*/*/

 

  

 

 ***Author's Note:** Jellyroll is, of course, named for the jazz icon, JellyRoll Morton.

 

 

 


End file.
